Regrets of a Killer
by chibi-hime123
Summary: Perhaps the pain is what made me insane." B looks back on his life and remembers the moments that are responsible for his insanity.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This little plot bunny just wouldn't leave me alone so I decided that I would write it and put it on Fanfiction for your viewing pleasure! This is just a little introduction chapter, the next ones will be longer! I promise!

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note sadly... all the characters belong to either Tsugumi Ohba, Takeshi Obata, or NISIOISIN

Gazing out between the cold metal bars of my jail cell, chewing on my thumb in thought while watching the lives of my fellow inmates pass by. The guards leading them past my cell repeatedly, their red life spans hovering over their head as a constant reminder.

Death death death, that is what flashed in front of my eyes unceasingly, not letting me forget that all people are meant to die. Perhaps that is why I could never fall in love, always seeing their life counting down every second, the pain would be unbearable. That is, if I could still feel emotional pain, if I had not long ago given up my emotions to become like L.

Maybe it is better not to feel the emotions that plague the average citizen, not to be so vulnerable to my surroundings. Although I miss the happiness, the joy I could feel before, even if it was only for a little bit while I was not looking up at the ticking time bombs above people's heads. Those rare moments of complete bliss made life almost bearable, made it almost alright that I could see the deaths of all my loved ones. Almost. Perhaps the pain is what made me insane.

AN: Lots of thanks and love to my beta, Blueberry-Valentine. Any one who reviews gets virtual cookies!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Sorry that it took me so long to post this! Various things distracted me including a slight bout of writer's block. But here it is, finally! Enjoy!

I was born into a loving family. We lived in a decent sized house in the good part of the neighborhood. Every weekday morning, my father got up early and went to work after kissing my mother and saying his I love you's. My mother stayed with me, cooking and cleaning all day like a stereotypical housewife.

When I was around two years old, I was able to speak in complex sentences and had a rather extensive vocabulary, which was unheard of in a child of my age. My parents were radiating pride and often bragged to their friends when they thought I couldn't hear.

My mother began to teach me how to read when I was almost three. We sped through the simple books and I was soon reading decent sized chapter books. I could see the delight in my mother's eyes when I began to read Macbeth and Hamlet.

We spent hours everyday reading together in our separate chairs with our separate books, immersed in our separate worlds. My mother usually read gossip magazines while I was working my way through classics like War and Peace.

My father, on the other hand, was much more interested in math than reading. Most days after he came home from a long day of work, he would sit with me at the table and teach me all kinds of math if he was not too tired.

On the days that he was too tired he gave me a tired apologetic smile and would say, "Sorry, Beyond. Maybe tomorrow, okay?" I always answered with a cheery smile and an excited "Okay!" Then he would give me a hug, say good night to my mother and I, and be off to bed.

Life was perfect. Well, as perfect as it could be for a boy with shinigami eyes.

Back then I did not understand my eyes, the power they would one day bring me. I understood the names, but the shimmering red numbers confused me. I should have ignored it and tried to be normal, but being a young a curious little boy, I explored it further.

I decided not to ask my parents about it since I noticed that they never looked above people's heads. I came to the conclusion that no one else in my immediate family had eyes like mine.

At first I thought that the numbers were their age, but this hypothesis was proved incorrect by looking at the older people around me who usually had small numbers over their heads. I gave up my quest for the answer for a while, feeling rather dejected after my only hypothesis was incorrect, and just tried to feign normalcy.

When I turned three, my mother took me to school for the first time, a rather momentous event. We woke up at the same time my father did and prepared a lunch together. The excitement was palpable, even the sun seemed happier that day.

While we were preparing for the big day, I noted my parent's numbers. My mother's was exactly a year and my father's was less than a day. It made me even more excited that I would be able to find out what happens when the numbers run out.

Once we arrived at the school my excitement wore off and was replaced with confusion. I saw all the parents crying after their child left and I wondered if school was a bad place. Seeing many of the kids crying there confirmed my suspicion and I began to grow fearful. I quickly shook my head to clear my panic and concentrated on studying my peers, taking note of their names and numbers.

I observed as the teachers gathered the hysterical children and tried to calm them down. After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, the children were relatively calm. My peers and I were instructed to sit in a circle on the ground and listen as we went around and told our names. Since I already knew the names of everyone there, I did not pay much attention until it was my turn.

"My name is Beyond Birthday. Nice to meet you all," I announced, my dark brown eyes looking at each person in turn.

The room was immediately silent, shocked expressions painted on everyone's face. The kids bursting into laughter broke the silence. I was very confused and I could feel the blood rise to my face.

"What is so funny?" I demanded.

"Your... name!" Gasped one of the laughing children.

My earlier suspicions of this place were correct. I could feel the tears gather in my eyes as the teachers began to quiet down the guffawing children. I quickly resolved that I would not be like the other children who had previously made fools of themselves. I blinked back my tears and let no emotions show through on my face.

The class began to start again soon after the children were calm. Keeping my emotions under control, I worked silently alongside the other children during our various crafts and games. I was surprised and quite disappointed to find out that we were not going to do any actual learning, at least, not on the first day.

The naptime in the afternoon was the most useless activity we had the whole day. I spent an hour lying on my cot and pretending to sleep while the children around me dreamed of candy and happiness. The teachers were mostly in a remote corner of the room, as far as I could tell, using this time for a break in which to socialize.

The school day finally finished after a seemingly endless circle in which one of the teachers read a short story to us that was written in simple words and had large pictures on each page. The red symbols above the teacher's head showed that her name was Amy Jonson. The numbers floating atop her silky hair, which I had yet to figure out the meaning of, were very small.

After the story ended with some cliché line about how friends are very important, the teachers escorted us to the patio of our small school to go home with our parents. We all waited fairly patiently against the dark brown wall of the barn- turned-school. The children surrounding me were all talking excitedly to their new friends while I stood alone, silently praying to any god that would listen to make my parents come quickly and pick me up from this hellhole. Apparently, my name made me a freak and no one would talk to me.

My classmates filed into their respective cars one by one until there were only a few left. I noticed that they were gathered together like they were looking at something on the ground. As I wandered over to get a look, I heard a shrill squeaking sound coming in the direction of their gathering. I peeked through a crack in their wall of bodies and was not surprised at what I saw. It was a mouse that seemed to be in pain. Some of the girls were starting to cry and the boys were trying to act tough, but the sadness was evident in their eyes.

I nudged my way through the small crowd and picked up the mouse carefully, bringing it off of our fairly clean deck and onto the grass. While whispering calming words to it and petting it gently, I laid it on the grass and gave it one last pat on the head. Then I stood up and quickly crushed its small head with my shoe, the quiet crunch of the scull bones and the nerve tissue that seeped out sent a shiver of delight down my back.

The noise from the mouse stopped but a chorus of gasps and cries filled its place. I turned around to look at the expressions of my small audience. The teachers all looked very surprised and sad while my classmates did not seem to understand what happened.

One of the girls asked, "What did you do to the mousy?"

"I killed it, put it out of its misery." I replied calmly, scraping the mouse's gray matter off on the side of the deck.

"The mousy went bye-bye?" she asked with a confused expression on her face.

I took a deep breath and was about to explain it to her when Amy, or Miss Jonson and she wanted us to call her, interrupted me.

"Yes, sweetie, he went up into mousy heaven with all his friends," she said while patting the girl on her back.

I was about to ask Miss Jonson why she didn't tell the girl the truth, but my mother pulled up to the curb and honked her horn lightly to get our attention.

Miss Jonson helped me climb into my mother's car while showing obvious signs of being nervous though I could not figure out why. She helped me buckle up my car seat while making idle chitchat with my mother.

The car ride was silent and uncomfortable at first. I occasionally heard sniffs coming from my mother, but since I was in the seat right behind her I could not see if she was crying. I was sure she was though I didn't understand why.

"What's wrong, mother?" I asked quietly.

She laughed nervously, "I should have known that you would notice something. I'll tell you when we get home, Beyond. It's not something I want to talk about while I'm driving."

"Okay," I replied, the curiosity gnawing at my brain.

The ride seemed like eternity after that. I began to count all the deciduous trees that we passed by so I could keep my mind busy. I got to 1,521 before we reached our house.

My mother got out of the car and helped me get out also. We walked silently to the living room couch. All that while I examined her face carefully, she had tearstains on her face and was still sniffling occasionally.

She sat down with me on the couch and took a deep breath. Tears started to roll down her face, finding the easiest path to jump off her chin and die if they had the chance before being swiped away by a delicate, trembling hand.

"Beyond, your father died today," she whispered.

I felt my whole body become cold and my heart began to race. Even though I know that death is natural and I had witnessed it many times with animals and insects, it had never come this close to us.

"H-how?" I asked shakily through my fresh tears.

"He was walking home from work when he was attacked and killed by a thug," she replied between sobs.

Realization hit me like a brick. The numbers counted down to their deaths. I couldn't find any other reasonable explanations and once you eliminate the impossible, what ever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

I looked back up at my mother's numbers, less than a year. My mother would die in less than a year. I began to cry even harder. Maybe ignorance is bliss; maybe I should have never paid any attention to the numbers. But I knew it would be impossible to just forget about them. They were always there, taunting me.

My mind began to develop small, finger-like cracks that slowly tore my brain apart in the years to come, that brought me to the glorious insanity that almost helped me to win. As I sat there beside my soon to be dead mother and cried, my twisted mind began to accept the fact that everyone around me would eventually die and that I could see that exact time.

I wiped away my tears with the backs of my small pale hands and calmed my breath. Deciding that my mother would probably not be too bothered by my lack of lamentation since I was very young, I picked up the book closest to me and began to read.

Akazukin Cha Cha, the title read. I found myself quickly absorbed in the adorable antics of Cha Cha, Riiya, and Shiine-chan. The death of my father and the future deaths of all those around me, including myself, faded into the background. I barely put the books down until I finished them, sighing in a mix of happiness and sadness.

The rest of that year passed quickly, school had become a boring blur and the only fun thing was reading or studying at home with my mother. I watched the numbers count down above her head, each second bringing her closer to her ultimate demise. Death became an everyday thing for me so it began to bother me less and less until I had to force myself to be sad when mother was feeling depressed about father.

My mother's numbers reduced to months, weeks, then finally days. With two days left, my mother informed me of the trip that she would be taking to my father's grave. She invited me to go with her, but I refused, thinking that it would be better for her to be alone with her deceased husband.

Her eyes grew emptier as the time passed. On the day of my father's death and my mother's, her eyes were empty of life. She bid us adieu and left me alone with my grandmother as she boarded the train that would bring her to my father's grave. My grandmother, who had about a year and a half left, and I waved as the train pulled from the station. Then returned home to eat and read as was my routine.

We read silently until my grandmother dubbed it my bedtime and rushed me to brush my teeth and go to sleep. I cooperated quietly and lay in my bed for what seemed like hours, waiting for sleep to approach me. I could soon hear the slightly muffled snores of my grandmother, jealous of her ability to fall asleep so easily. I eventually drifted off and was greeted with a dreamless sleep.

My grandmother awoke me early, muttering some nonsense about how I was sleeping away my youth. There was a plate of pancakes waiting for me on the table after I had dressed. I eagerly devoured them. My grandmother sat across from me, her mind busy reading today's newspaper.

She let out a shriek, her eyes growing wide as she stared at the paper. I tilted my head to the side and asked her what the problem was. She turned the paper around and pointed first at the title of the article, "Train crash kills many and leaves others injured." Then at my mother's name, which was under the title of deceased persons. Honestly, I was not at all surprised although I had expected her to die from suicide rather than an accident. I played my part and began to bawl, my grandmother joining me.

The next few days were a blur of crying and arranging a funeral. On the day of my mother's burial, we all dressed in our best all black clothes and took the train to my father's gravesite, much like my mother had done. We made our way to the funeral home, where we all cried around my mother's closed casket. Then we headed to the cemetery. As everyone stood around the grave after she was buried, an elderly man approached me.

"Hello, young man," he said quietly, "I am sorry for your loss."

I turned towards him, my eyes mostly dry. "Thank you. Who are you and what was your relation to my mother?" I asked, only realizing after the words came out that it seemed a little rude.

The aged man only laughed, amused by my childish curiosity. "I am an old friend of your mother's. She asked me to talk to you if anything unfortunate happened to her and your father. My name is Quillsh."

AN: Kyahahaha, cliffy! Thanks to my lovely betta, Blueberry-Valentine. Reviews make me not kill you! :D


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